


Sandor Fucking Kills a Guy

by Korpuskat



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Author regrets nothing, Blood and Viscera, Fight Porn, Meryn Trant is a little bitch, Murder, Unexpected Weaponry, literally just a fic about my man Sandor killing a guy okay, literally nothing matters its fight porn, no clear timeline, where the fuck did his helmet go after season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 11:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18777349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Korpuskat/pseuds/Korpuskat
Summary: Sandor has a not good day, and then it gets a little better.





	Sandor Fucking Kills a Guy

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, I just wanted some good old fight porn and also to explain why Sandor's helm is missing from season 1 onwards (to the best of my knowledge, as of season 5).

He didn't do too much riding alone these days; there had been a time, briefly, between boyhood and his unending life's work of living off Lannister gold that he could take off on a whim. He was scarred enough to scare off most, and strong enough to kill the rest. That part hadn’t really changed.

Escorting the Lannisters was boring, at best. Now and then there'd be someone stupid enough, when Sandor would finally be able to wet his blade. But mostly it was just standing, following, riding on and on. Riding in his full armor for days, weeks, finding each conversation he had to overhear even more irritating than the last, but still not as irritating as his helm. 

It was masterfully crafted, of course, expensive repoussé of their favorite Hound. Commanded by the same Lannister gold that kept him in their service. But in truth, it was impractical. The front gorget and helm itself were usable, but the visage of the dog's maw was nothing but a burden. Heavy, obscuring fangs left blind spots- and completely blocked his peripherals. It was a terror symbol, and something the Prince had absolutely _adored._ The hunting dog at the lion's heel. 

Of course, it could open, become a touch more usable- and reveal the even more terrifying face inside, but there was the catch: the visor's joint was so damn loose now it squeaked with every infuriating movement. He'd taken it to every smith worth his coin, but no sanding, hammering, or oiling would end the grating of steel.

He'd drifted to the end of the pack, seeking the noise of his own horse's hoof beats and the incessant squeaking of his helm's jaws over the stilted and empty conversation.

He heard it before his horse had even reacted. The sharp _zzzvt_ of an arrow cutting through the air- the sound of a steel arrowhead piercing flesh. For a moment Sandor thinks it's hit him- that he just hadn't felt it yet. But his horse rears up, a wet, bubbling scream bringing blood pouring from its mouth. It wavers, and he's already pushing off the saddle- he'd been pinned under his own horse once; he had no desire to fight on his back again.

"Fuck!" Sandor stumbles, the jaws of his helmet squeaking, swinging up and down. The rest of the guard has stopped as well- Sandor hears another arrow, another scream from one of the horses. The kingsguard on each side of Robert pull up their shields. The Hound spins, stares through the trees- the unsharpened edge of a blade collided with the back of his helm, driving him down to his knees. It rings so loud, Sandor thinks he won't be able to hear anything else again- and knocks the steel from his head.

The aggressor raises his sword again, Sandor rolled- fighting on his back again. He kicked- heard the all too familiar noise of bone shattering under skin, watching as the man's leg bent the wrong way. His hold on his sword faltered, the steel clattering away. The man- no, hardly more than a boy, Sandor realizes- falls onto Sandor's chest- ready enough to grab at the neckline of his armor, his right fist punching at the good side of Sandor's face. 

He can hardly feel it. The man is so light, Sandor rolls them- the rebel’s unarmored fingers grabbing at Sandor's face, desperately trying to gouge at his eyes. Sandor sees something, in the grass- the cold black of steel. He reaches for it, prying the man's hand off his face just long enough-

and brings it down onto his skull. His nails dug into Sandor's cheeks, scraping as he howled- blood blossoming over his cheekbones, his temple, and nose. Sandor brings the helm down again, hears a _crunch_ this time, the howling turning wet and labored- and he brings it down again- hot blood misting up with the sweep of his arm, the taste of iron settling heavy in his nose and on his scarred lips. He swings again, and again- until the man's fingers stop twitching. Until he doesn't really look like a man at all.

Sandor stands. He's panting, his heart pounding in his chest- knowing that the mess of a man's wasn't. His ears are still ringing, but he looks at the rest of the travel party- the handful of scrappy would-be rebels already dead, the rest given easy deaths at sharpened steel blades. 

He looks down to his helm; it's almost unrecognizable. Somewhere, the rebel's skull had given some resistance: the delicately repousséd snout of the dog is deeply dented, the black steel entirely covered in blood- clots of tissue caught along the grooves along one side, uneven and dripping. 

Ser Meryn smirks from under his golden-plated helm, his mocking voice lilting over the air. "Your helm finally matches you, Clegane!"

Sandor growls, "Get me another fucking horse."

**Author's Note:**

> you: Meryn Trant has a personality and motives  
> me, an intellectual: bitchy background antagonist


End file.
